Cat on a Cold Tin Roof by Mike Resnick

chauvinist pig, which I probably am from time to time. “Why not a woman?”
    â€œBecause the lady at the shelter told me it was a guy,” I answered.
    â€œOkay, some guy gave the cat to the shelter, and maybe he’s a killer, and maybe he’s just a good Christian,” said Mrs. Cominsky. “What does that have to do with me?”
    â€œI wrote an ad as if I was the owner, hoping he’d make contact with me. But I think it could be a little better, or at least a little more sincere . I was hoping that if I show it to you that you might make a suggestion or two.”
    â€œAh!” she said happily, now that we were getting down to business. “Let me see it!”
    I pulled the paper out, unfolded it, and handed it to her. She studied it for a moment, a frown of either concentration or disapproval written large across her face.
    â€œWell?” I asked when she looked up.
    â€œFirst of all, the cat needs a name.”
    â€œFluffy,” I told her.
    She took a pencil out of a pocket and scribbled the name down on the paper.
    â€œAnd she’s not your mackerel tabby,” she said. “She’s your beloved mackerel tabby.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, as she wrote it down. “Anything else?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “He turned her in, not it . Beloved cats are never its.” She scribbled again. “Also, he didn’t find her; he saved her. And maybe a heartfelt gift, rather than just a gift. You don’t want to say a valuable gift or you’ll get three hundred jerks calling and pretending they turned the cat in.”
    She finished writing and handed it back to me:
    Will the party who found my beloved mackerel tabby cat Fluffy and turned her in to the Wilkinson Animal Shelter two days ago please contact me? I want to thank you in person and present you with a heartfelt gift for saving her .
    â€œWell?” she asked.
    â€œBetter,” I said. “Let’s hope it works.”
    â€œNow that we’re partners,” she said, “who was killed and what does the cat have to do with it?”
    â€œThe police have asked me not to divulge the name of the deceased to anyone,” I lied. “And the cat may have nothing at all to do with it.”
    She frowned again. “Why would a killer take a victim’s cat with him? It’s not as if the damned thing could testify to what it saw.”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it scratched him, maybe he got some DNA on it.”
    She shook her head. “Then why turn it in to a shelter?”
    â€œIf I had all the answers I’d know who he was and he’d be in jail or totally off the hook,” I said.
    â€œLet’s put our heads together and see what we can reason out.”
    â€œNot this second,” I said apologetically. “I can tell Marlowe needs a walk. Can’t have him messing the rug,” I said as I grabbed his leash and put it on him.
    â€œThe carpet, damn it!” she snapped.
    â€œBack soon,” I said as I opened the door and tugged Marlowe, who was still nine-tenths asleep, down the stairs and out the door.
    It was still light out, and I walked Marlowe almost two blocks past Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias in the hope that Mrs. Cominsky would get tired of waiting for me, but she’d had an evangelistic look about her face as I left that said, You’re Nick, I’m Nora, that’s Asta, and we’re going to solve a murder that’s stumped the police .
    Even Marlowe, who never feels anything, was getting uncomfortably cold, and finally I began walking him back to the apartment. I became aware that a car was following us very slowly the final half block. I figured it was just because of some icy patches on the street, but then I remembered I’d just driven on the same street maybe half an hour ago, and the traction was fine, so I stopped and turned to look at it.
    It was a BMW, and the driver had